


Leaves and Coffees

by SherlockianonFire



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:48:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7084447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianonFire/pseuds/SherlockianonFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short ficlets and drabbles of our favorite Knights posted in Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something I Like About You

**_The first time was an accident._ **

It was a small sound, a chuckle. Something like a tweet from a bird, a very short cry. Nothing heard before.  
It was sweet… heartwarming… and beautifully new. 

Merlin thought it was a snort.   
James was sure it wasn’t.

**_The second time it was clearer._ **

It had a prelude. A faint smile dancing in his lips, something similar to dimples in his cheeks appeared and a smirk led the way to a vocal sound that moved from an “ah” to and “oh”. His eyes squinted and his nose high in fake disdain.

Harry said it was an eye-rolling.  
James was sure it wasn’t.

**_The third time was obvious._ **

He covered his mouth with one hand and his head tilted a little to the left. His eyes were clearly closed and his breathing was uneven.   
His entire body relaxed and the constant melody of his enjoyment vibrated in unison with James’.   
It was full of energy and life. The way in which his soul became transparent was the most amazing thing that Lancelot had ever seen.

It was natural.  
It was honest.  
It was perfect.

Percival’s laughing made everybody to fall in love with him.


	2. The what, the when, the who…

And there is nothing…  
  
Nothing of him in that blurred face in the mirror.  
Only Harry… Harry… Harry…  
His parted hair, his soft wrinkles, the silver strands in his hair,   
his fainted smile, his rosy cheeks…  
Where is he?

Where is the acute jaw, the cold eyes, the inquisitive brows and the proud eyelashes?  
Where is the the self-sufficient smirk and the sharp words?  
Where are the rough days and the restless nights?

When the golden hair went dark?  
When the bones became thin?  
When the edges disappeared and polished themselves  
as a raw piece of carbon to a pure diamond?

In the blink of an eye…  
In the blink of an eye…   
In the blink of an eye…

When did the whisky ease his troubled mind?  
When did the water calm his sore body?  
When did the smoke take away his eternal nuisances? 

In the silence of the night…  
In the warm of the dawn…   
In the the cold of the evening… 

In the light of the day…  
With you…  
Today…  
Because of you…  
Today…

In me…


	3. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  This belongs to the Kingsman's Collaboration Month in Tumblr.
> 
> There is a gift set associated to this piece by @Hartwinorlose. 
> 
>  *****

 

It was fragile and soft, the sound of life and death in a delicate impulse. The memories dancing in front of your eyes spiraling as the words long time forgotten. A glimpse of the past hurting your chest and soul; piercing shrieks of the times you failed and decayed.

And you are wounded… 

And you are lost…

And you are dead…

Pearls going down your cheeks, the moment lost, the heart broken and gone.

But you held his hand and you changed.

It shines…

It breathes…

It lives…

With you in the middle of it; with you out of the dark... With him next to me; with him being the sun…

With you being alive one more time.

 


	4. The Winner Takes It All

His smile was a wicked one.   
Actually it was a smirk accompanied with a mischievous spark in his cold eyes. The same sky blue eyes that never let an emotion show were now literally smiling at him.  
It wasn’t funny.   
He wasn’t even smiling but his eyes were.

His companions were beaten long ago.   
That was more dignifying than wait until the dreadful moment of losing your last piece of clothing. The other two participants joked about the fact that he and his adversary looked like a married couple having a quarrel. Neither of them wanted to lose.

That was funny to hear, since the spectators also seemed like a married couple… but of sore losers.

He had lost everything. It started with his signet ring until the miserable state in which he was now, only in his boxers waiting that his _four of a kind_ would beat anything that his partner might have in his hands.

Or that he thought.

Because he was _bloody_ smirking.

Merlin quit the moment he lost his precious tablet and his scotch was gone from his glass.   
Galahad retired when his lost his shirt, after losing his holster and his invaluable set of guns and the rainmaker. That was enough for his proud career in poker. That and the fact that he was too drunk to keep his reactions to himself and he sold Merlin talking about his friend’s twitch (a soft tapping of his right hand) when he got a _straight flush_ and the other couple threatened to retired.

Now, Lancelot was trying to defeat  his enemy and become the rightful owner of the precious belongings of their fellow agents and friends.

But Lancelot was done.

Percival motioned his hands slowly and the smirk on his lips transformed into an open smile full of white teeth and bright eyes. His gin tonic almost untouched, his cards in order and his perfect appearance in that calmly shade of white and blue of his full Kingsman suit.

A week later Merlin and Galahad recovered their belongings.

Lancelot didn’t.

It took them a month to play _strip poker_ again with Percival.

Percival had a _Royal Flush_.   
Lancelot was done.


	5. Presumptuous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this is totally a coincidence.  
> A day like today a year ago we got the confirmation of the sequel.   
> I'm still writing Kingsman.
> 
> This is for the lovely Phaeleah  
> I know it's not perfect, but I need to take out of my head the image we got the other day.
> 
> No beta, because it's late and I'm tired.

 

Even with all her morning routine, Roxane Morton arrived extremely early to her first class: a class of philosophy on a cold Monday morning. Half an hour was enough time for her to keep her habit of being ready for everything. What she never expected was to find a sleeping guy sitting in the middle of the room, clearly snoring and with his face covered with a baseball cap. 

 

Roxy wondered why that kind of students even existed. She thought it was a total waste of time and space, but who was she to judge, at least the guy was there, maybe by hearing the lecture something would be learned. 

 

The first row became her perfect spot for a successful experience in a new class, and not many students would bother her or her questions during the two hours of the teacher discussing the secrets of life and existence.

 

During the minutes that followed, the room filled slowly with students, some of them noisy, others quiet, but the figure of the guy with the cap remained in silence, not snoring anymore, in the middle of the room.

The class was scheduled for 8.00 am with a normal margin of ten minutes in case someone was late. It was a tacit rule, but in college every extra minute one could get for sleeping was well appreciated. At 8.06 everybody began to wonder if the teacher was actually coming or not. For Roxy, it was odd in extreme a college lecturer arriving late, apart from being disrespectful to the students.

 

When a tall, slender figure of wild locks of deep brown crossed the door, everybody went silent. If someone would have made a bet on the role of the newcomer, everybody would have sworn that it was the late teacher of philosophy.

 

The highly disrespectful figure that dared to make them wait without a reason.  

 

All eyes on the man of the fancy clothes - nice suite and thick glasses - that with his sole presence changed the air in the room; authority painted in his features, his fluffy hair proud and highlighting the warm color of his brown eyes, inquisitive and attentive was enough for catching the eyes of more than one student, male or female.

 

He was young, but intriguing attractive.

For a teacher, he looked adorable.

 

Someone muttered a _finally_ at the back of the room and Roxy only glanced to the back with her famous stare of disapproval. More than one classmate thought that Roxy was a serial killer in disguise. She didn’t bother in correcting them.

 

When the man took a seat near Roxy, she blinked once, twice and three times.

 

“Wait, aren’t you the teacher?” She asked in astonishment.

 

“Uh, eh, no, I’m sorry. I was late; I thought that maybe it would pass unnoticed.” The young man said with his warm eyes in an apologetic expression. “What did I miss? Why did you think I was the teacher?” He added picking his books and some pencil from a lustrous suitcase.

 

“Well, you clearly look like one.” Morton observed him one more time in detail. It was a man pleasant to the eyes indeed. “I’m Roxanne Morton, but call me Roxy.” She offered her hand for a handshake that was steady and proper of a gentleman.

 

“Harry. Harry Hart.” The newcomer smiled at Morton with an air that would have stopped a war if necessary: pure softness. “Then, where’s the lecturer? I never thought I would do such an impression arriving late.”

 

No matter what he did, he was always late. He just couldn’t fight it.

 

“Maybe he is sick.” Roxy guessed with her eyes on the door, still waiting for an old man, carrying heavy books, walking slowly and being grumpy with all of them.

 

“I heard this is his first time as a teacher.” Another young man commented. His eyes were green and his manners were delicate and friendly.

 

“I don’t think so. Have you seen his curriculum? It’s impressive.” An Oxford accented voice intervened; his owner a man of dark hair with astonishing cold blue eyes.

 

“Sorry, you are...” Morton tried to recall the faces behind her seat. She didn’t remember them from another class.

 

“My bad, sorry.” The one of the green eyes blamed himself quickly. “I’m James and this is Percy.” He pointed at himself and to the man of the posh voice.

 

“Percival.” The latter corrected James. His handshakes were for Harry and Roxy.

 

“I’m Harry; she is Roxanne.” Hart added.

 

“I think you are all mistaken.” Another man of scarce dark hair but piercing olive eyes commented.

 

“Merlin stop appearing like Hermione in the Prisoner of Azkaban, for God’s sake.” James complained feeling his heart skipping a beat. His friend had the strange ability to show up when he was most needed and with the information everyone was dying to know.

 

“I’m just saying you are all wrong.” He added with a mysterious smile.

 

“Then what? Tell us what you know, please, please, please.” James faked a tantrum for the amusement of Harry and Roxy, while Percy only rolled his eyes in desperation.

 

“Oh, you don’t deserve it.” Merlin dismissed the other man antics.

 

“Well, all I can say is that I heard our teacher is a Greek god.” Percival mumbled a bit ashamed of his inquiries. In his defense it was a gossip he didn’t intend to hear, but what harm could that make?

 

“I hope he is fit as hell, because I need motivation to pass this term. I’m not fond of old men talking nonsense for two hours.” Harry joked lightly. James almost jumped from his seat in agreement.

 

Their chatting continued for some minutes, until they considered it was way too late for a lecture.

 

Suddenly, someone threw a book at the whiteboard and everyone went silent as the guy in the baseball cap crossed the room and leaped over the teacher’s desk to the front of the room and said:

 

“I guess we can start class now. We’re gonna start by talkin’ about my favorite subject: men… and women; in other words human beings. We will explore beliefs, morals and the inner motivations that have you here.”

The young man in front of the class made some students hid a scream. He was a well formed young man, in his early twenties; of dirty blond hair, fair complexion with a pair of eyes impossible to describe with only one known color; a mix of grey, green and blue that added brightness to the smirk that adorned his squared features, with a sharp jaw that resembled the blade of the mythical Excalibur.

His physique was a vision to hold for times of solitude. A well-defined torso, with the right muscles noticeable in the right places was covered with an olive green t-shirt that totally matched his shoes; all of it completed with a pair of dark trousers that didn’t leave much to the imagination, but were more than welcome by the students in the front row.  

“I’m professor Unwin, but you can call me Eggsy.” He spoke looking at the full room. Then in a soft voice only for the students sat at the front he added: “And yes Mister Hart, I’m fit as hell.”

A coquettish wink from the lecturer made a shiver travelled from Harry’s throat down to his stomach.

Maybe, just maybe, he will have concentration problems during this term, because if something was clear it was the fact that he wouldn’t need extra motivation to study.


	6. Constellations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my good friend anarchycox for sharing her amazing talent with us mere mortals.
> 
> "To Merlin"

   He would stay quietly glued to the eyepiece of his old telescope - a gift from his mentor - passed through the generations of wizards before him.

Calming, soothing… _private_.

Or… he thought it would be private.  
It was.  
For many years.

For many years, before being discovered. It would have been a secret to warm his heart, to enjoy in quiet loneliness, to marvel himself in the infinitude of the galaxy.

For once, his naked eyes through a piece of glass. Not second-hand reflections and colors; just the bright light of the stars twirling for him, and him only.

***

“Since when do you enjoy stargazing?”

    He had expected mockery, wit, disdain even, but never interest; at least not from the newest Galahad. There was admiration in his voice; the same voice that sounded composed and detached when in meetings, and politely cold during missions.

The apparent shallowness of his demeanour had suddenly dissolved into a soft curiosity and childish, innocent smile.

The silence stood there between the two of them, probably smiling too.

At that precise moment, the Quartermaster knew he would have to share his secret, because one day - not too far away in time - the other man would be tracing maps of stars on pieces of paper for him.

And maybe, just maybe, he would let him look at the stars through his telescope, but just once.

And maybe one day, someone would to trace constellations on his skin too.

Maybe one day he would have the courage to swim in that supernova.

***

   Lancelot didn’t investigate; he never put too much effort in discovering things about others, apart from the job. Somehow the knowledge walked straight into his head.

He had begged for five days in a row to be welcomed in Merlin’s personal _Valhalla_. The Quartermaster had dutifully ignored his requirements.

_But he would wait; he would wait and be rewarded._

One day, a very lazy day at the mansion, James hoped for the sun to go down. He trapped himself in paperwork before becoming a feline creature when the sky turned itself dark blue.

James’s intuition made him wander around the estate, listening to the leaves’ chatting and night birds’ gossiping.

By the time Lancelot was able to have a complete look of the building’s decadent form; the stars illuminated the pathways into the yard, but against all that immense presences, a tiny form moved on the rooftop.

A single spark copied the shine of the celestial beings in the blue mantle above humanity. James felt the urge to came back and see every detail of that world crowning his head.

Hamish huffed in displeasure, but said no more when James passed him a glass with a scotch too good to be kept in the basement. Lancelot would only observe his training officer and friend being under the spell of the twinkling little lights above their heads.

***

   The night Percival found out, Merlin just let it be. The taciturn man had kept track of the nights the wizard disappeared and once the opportunity had risen, he followed the Scott to the highest place in the mansion.

As Merlin had expected, Percival had brought coffee and a blanket. Anything else was unnecessary.

The occasions repeated through the years and every time, the knight would lie down next to the equipment humming some classical music, his eyes closed, his other senses opened to the nocturnal whisperings of trees and the songs of the cicadae.

_When only the two of them were left, the stars were forgotten for a long time._

The first time Hamish had enough courage to look at the stars from his old telescope, Alastair had refused to go up with him.

“I read that shooting stars will be visible tonight.” Hamish had said, maybe scared of being lonely or just trying to act normal. “Ye can make a wish.”

“All wishes belong to wiser men.” Percival answered in his calm expression and steady voice. “They belong to you…” He continued arranging the music pages in front of the piano.

With that, Merlin climbed to the top of the mansion, his always loyal telescope on his back, his eyes already in the skies. The wind singing to the first notes that reached his ears.

Chopin’s nocturnes flew through an open window in the ground floor for Hamish to enjoy the night lost in constellations.

_Wishing upon a shooting star._


End file.
